


Selene - The Piece of Cake Rewrite

by gay_briel



Category: Piece of Cake - Kate Forster, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Asshole Peter, Baking, Canonical Character Death, Chef Derek, Derek and Stiles Being Idiots, Fluff and Angst, Food, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_briel/pseuds/gay_briel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles, what’s wrong?” Scott said, concern painting his face. Stiles opened his mouth, trying to formulate in words how to even start to tell them what had happened, but he was saved from explaining himself when Lydia walked through the door. </p><p>Stiles raised his eyebrows at her in a question, and she nodded towards the door behind her.</p><p>Standing in the doorway was a guy who had to be Derek. He was Stiles’ height, with dark hair and a sexy amount of stubble playing at his chin. He wore biker boots and a leather jacket, and his expression looked like someone had woken him from a good dream and punched him in the face. But what caught Stiles’ attention the most was his eyes-- a deep, ocean blue-- that while harsh and guarded, seemed kind.</p><p>“Stiles, this is Derek,” said Lydia. </p><p>--</p><p>After a tragic accident strikes his dad down for the count, all of Stiles' plans of travel are forgotten as he is left with the burden of running Cafe Selene.</p><p>Desperately looking for a chef to run the kitchen, Stiles turns to Derek, a mysterious and somewhat grumpy drifter with a talent for brooding.</p><p>The odds are against them -- but maybe, just maybe, they can make this work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I don’t think I could ever love anything as much as I love chocolate_ , Stiles thought as he licked rich chocolate ganache off the spoon in his hand.

"Put the spoon down and no-one will get hurt."

Stiles spun around guiltily to see his dad standing in the doorway of the kitchen, eyebrow raised in amusement and dishcloth in hand.

"Back off, Dad," he growled playfully, pulling himself up onto the counter and swinging his legs. "This is my cake, which means it’s my chocolate."

"Kiddo, it’s my kitchen," his dad answered, flicking the dishcloth at Stiles, narrowly avoiding his legs.

Stiles snorted and turned to the cake next to him, sprinkling fine edible gold over the icing in a precise, calculated manner. He moved back and grinned at his handiwork, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of chocolate across it.

His dad rolled his eyes with a smile.

"Very pretty, Stiles. Now are you going to help me make the actual dinner?"

Stiles snorted, jumping off the bench to adjust the tiny violets that were sitting on top of some nearby vanilla cupcakes.

"Yeah, I know. You only make 'pretty' food, like cupcakes and souffle," his dad mocked, and Stiles just rolled his eyes in reply.

Stiles loved to bake. Before his mom had passed, she used to whisk him away into the kitchen for hours. They would get lost in a world of chocolate, flour, sugar and pastries. By nine years old, Stiles knew all of her favorite recipes and then some.

For a while after she went missing, Stiles had stopped baking altogether, but it felt wrong. She would want you to keep baking, he would think to himself. It would make her happy.

John Stilinski, having trained in some of the best kitchens in the world, had once been the chef to watch - that is, until he met Claudia. They had met in Paris -- she was on an art trip and had stopped for lunch at the restaurant where John was working as head chef. She fell in love instantly with his Blanquette de Veau, and then with the man himself. Before long they were engaged and moving back home to America to open a cafe in Claudia's hometown of Beacon Hills.

If John missed the busy days in the kitchens of London and Paris, he never let on to his son. Rather than yearning for his past glory, he threw himself into the cafe his wife had loved and adored. He spent his days slaving over a hot stove, and his nights at his messy desk poring over paperwork and bills--probably as a way of easing the pain of losing wife all those years ago.

John had suggested that Stiles do a cooking course or get an apprenticeship, but the last thing Stiles wanted to do was turn baking into a career. Baking was Stiles’ closest connection to his mom, and he didn't want that connection to be lost in the stress of a career. It was too special for that.

He couldn't really think about his dad's suggestions for the future. He knew what he needed to do before he could figure out what to do with the rest of his life. In the meantime, he didn't have any real responsibility except to help out in the cafe by baking and waiting tables or spending time with his friends. And that was fine with him.

"I'm only nineteen, Dad. I've got plenty of time to figure out what I want to do with myself. Besides, I'm happy here helping you," he had told his dad the last time he'd brought up the subject. It was easier to avoid the topic of Stiles travelling than to bring it up with his dad.

Stiles quickly looked at his watch before swearing, untying his white apron and hanging it on the wooden hook by the back stairs.

"Christ, is that the time? They’ll be here soon, I've got to get ready" he said to his dad in a flurry, before bolting up the stairs two at a time to the apartment above the cafe.

Turning on the shower, Stiles  pulled off his work uniform and looked at himself in the mirror. He had a smudge of ganache on his cheek and a sprinkling of the edible gold dust on his nose. He was a messy cook, much to his dad's frustration.

In the kitchen Stiles become a whirlwind of energy and ideas, creating chaos as he went. It was his trademark - or so his Babcia said to anyone who would listen.

"You shouldn't worry so much, Babcia," Stiles would say and kiss her cheek. "If I don’t clean the mess, dad will." He would give her a wink and a cheeky smile before running off to find mischief with Scott or Lydia.

Despite most of his friends working at the cafe under the wary eyes of his dad, they always seemed to find their way into any trouble Beacon Hills had to offer. Many times Stiles' dad would have to bribe Sheriff Parish with dinner and baked goods after he had dragged Stiles and Scott back home from whatever misadventures they had found.

"Paris isn't ready for you," his dad had said--possibly only half joking--when Stiles had told him of his plans of travelling.

After showering and drying off, Stiles dropped his towel on his bedroom floor and stepped into a pair of boxer-briefs, before pulling on a clean pair of jeans from the pile of freshly folded clothes sitting on his bed. He pulled on a white tee and a blue plaid button up. He looked himself over in the mirror and shrugged. It would do.

"You look very handsome, Bożydar," he heard his grandmother's voice say from the doorway. Much to Stiles’ amusement, Babcia sounded like a villain from a spy movie with her heavy Polish accent, .

"Hi, Babcia," Stiles said, grabbing a pair of sneakers from the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed to tie them on.

"Your father is stuffing chickens," Babica said, picking up Stiles' towel from the floor.

"I know," Stiles replied with a grin as he finished tying his laces and looked up at her.

Babcia didn’t bother responding, her eyes on Stiles' new backpack. It was sitting on his bed, overflowing with clothes.

Babcia sighed. "That pack's not big enough. You should take a suitcase... on veels."

Stiles held back a snort, imagining himself wheeling a suitcase around France and getting in everyone's way. He was clumsy enough as it is, so a backpack would do.

Beatrycze Aniela Stilinski was seventy, very Polish and very old-fashioned. Except, it seemed, when it came to suitcases on wheels. She didn't understand why Stiles would want to travel, not when he had a family business he could work in forever. To Babcia, family was everything.

She had moved in with Stiles and his dad the month his mom had passed away, and stayed up until about a year ago when she moved into her own little apartment a few blocks away. She liked to use a heavy dose of grandmotherly wisdom and Polish superstition to keep Stiles and his dad in check, but as soon as Stiles had booked his ticket to Paris, the apron strings were cut from Babcia's perspective.

"You have a jacket?" Babcia asked.

"No, Babcia, I'm fine," Stiles said with a small smile.

Babcia never thought Stiles wore enough layers. She also didn't like the length of his hair, or that he was always getting into trouble with Scott. Not that she ever blamed Scott though -- Scott could do no wrong in her eyes. And he had too many moles--although Stiles could hardly help that, he’d gotten them from his mom.

Babcia sighed, letting Stiles know she was disappointed in her only grandson, so Stiles kissed her wrinkled cheek to show he appreciated the concern.

"Your guests vill be here soon," Babcia said, her face softening slightly from the kiss. She glanced at herself in the mirror, patting her grey hair which had been styled for the evening.

"I know, I'm going to set the table now," Stiles said with a smile. "Want to help?"

Babcia shrugged nonchalantly, but Stiles knew his grandmother liked nothing more than to be needed.

"Okay, if you vant."

"I vant," Stiles said teasingly, taking her arm as they made their way down the stairs together.

Cafe Selene had once been little out of place cottage on a street full of little shops, but John had bought it and turned the ground floor into a cafe with rooms upstairs for him, his beautiful young wife, and their baby Bożydar.

Downstairs was transformed into a charming family cafe set with mix-and-match second hand chairs and tables, and walls full of the sketches and paintings Claudia had done over the years. There was a kitchen out the back and a small courtyard, but it was filled with boxes and milk crates. It had been John's intention to turn it into a summer spot for customers to read the paper or let their children play, but he hadn't got around to making it happen.

In the early days, Claudia had worked in the kitchens with John. After she was gone, Babcia had stepped into her role. But her knees started to hurt, and she didn't understand the organic, soy, gluten-free revolution in the food industry, no matter how much her son explained it to her. So instead, she devoted herself to the Polish Club, her garden, and worrying about Stiles.

"We'll eat here," Stiles said, gesturing to the large communal table that’s big enough to seat twelve comfortably.

Babcia wiped the already clean table with lemon spray as Stiles set out the cutlery and the place cards.

"Scott next to Isaac," he said aloud as he carefully placed the handwritten cards on the table. "Lydia next to Allison. Erica next to Boyd. You next to dad, of course."

"Vhy you vant people to sit vhere you say? They can decide who they vant to talk to," Babcia said as she picked up the card with her name.

Stiles snorted.

"Trust me, Babcia. If I let them decide amongst themselves, Allison would be pulling the butterknife on Erica and Boyd would sit there broodily the whole night. This way is better." Babcia sighed heavily and Stiles rolled his eyes. "I want it how I want it, okay? Leave me be."

Babcia was silent as she worked, and Stiles felt bad as he circled the table, laying out the cutlery. He knew he should be gentle with Babcia, but it was hard.

For six months it had been like this, Babcia finding every little thing Stiles did to be unsatisfactory. Stiles knew Babcia was upset about him leaving, but seriously, everyone left home eventually.

The delicious smell of roasting chickens and garlic potatoes drifted from the kitchen, causing Stiles' mouth to water. His dad was also doing a feta and bean salad and a roasted vegetable salad. It was all Stiles' favorite comfort food.

Then there would be three types of dessert: gold-dusted chocolate cake with Chantilly cream on the side, a summer pudding, and vanilla cupcakes.

Babcia was sweeping the floor as Stiles lit tea-light candles and placed them down the middle of the table and on the windowsill. When he was satisfied he was finished, he turned off the overhead lights and the room glowed. Stiles smiled at their work. It wasn't anything even close to any of Lydia's extravagant celebrations, but it would do.

"It looks pretty," Babcia admitted.

In the soft light, Stiles could see that his grandmother's eyes were filled with tears. They gazed at each other for a long moment.

"My father used to say to me, stand still and vhat you seek vill come and find you," Babcia paused. "You know, you don't have to travel to find the people who love you," she finished, straightening the cutlery and blinking away her tears.

"That's not why I'm going, Babcia," Stiles said gently, putting his arms around the woman he loved most in the world. He got ready with his favourite half-lie. "I'm going because I want to see the world."

"The vorld isn't so amazing," Babcia said with a sniff. "It's nice here too."

Stiles laughed. "I know, but seriously, you have to let it go, Babcia. Tomorrow I fly out of here. It doesn't mean I won't come back, though. I will. I promise." Stiles was in safe territory there--no half-lies in saying he was coming back.

Babcia reached out and held Stiles' face in her hands. Then she said when she and Stiles both knew, "This vont bring you any closer to her."

Stiles stood still, his eyes blinking as Babcia's faded blue eyes held his. "I'm going for me, not for her."

Babcia closed her eyes for a second, obviously not believing Stiles. She murmured like she often had over the years. "You can’t bring her back Bożydar, life doesn't vork that vay."

John appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

"It looks great, Stiles," he said proudly.

"Thanks, Dad."

Stiles pushed his grandmother's words out of his head for the moment. He went and took the dishcloth from his father's shoulder.

"Go and shower. You smell like garlic," Stiles said, pushing him towards the stairs.

"I always smell of garlic," he said with a shrug.

The cafe door opened and Stiles' best friend Scott and Scott’s girlfriend Allison walked in holding hands and exchanging loving smiles while Lydia followed in after them, rolling her eyes.

"Hey, guys! Glad you could make it," Stiles said with a grin, hugging Scott and kissing both Allison and Lydia on the cheek.

"Wouldn't miss it dude," Scott replied, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Still, I can't believe you're going! Who's going to beat me on Call of Duty now?"

Allison and Lydia exchanged a glance, and Stiles snorted.

"Come on, man. You know that the ladies could whoop your ass back to novice status. Plus you've got Isaac. You'll be fine." He smiled, looking at the loving faces in front of him. "Still, I'm going to miss you--all of you--so much."

"It'll be over in November," Allison reminded him. "It's only four months away."

Lydia pouted. "While I'm off to New York going to lectures! I should have taken a year off like you guys."

Lydia was about to start a mathematics degree at Cornell, and Allison and Scott had put off their respective teaching degrees at the local college. Stiles hadn't committed himself to a course yet. He honestly didn't know what he wanted to do after his trip, and really, his future depended on what he would find. He had good enough scores to get into Cornell, but wasn't sure he'd want to leave his dad and Babcia behind for that long. He'd have the weekends and holidays, but it just wasn't the same.

"Drink?" Stiles heard, and turned to see his father handing out drinks.

Soon the rest of the guests arrived; a few of his father's friends, including Sheriff Parrish (much to Scott and Stiles’ amusement), in addition to a few of Babcia’s friends from the Polish club who had watched Stiles grow up.

Stiles looked at the familiar, loving faces around the table. These people were his family, but there was always one face missing - the face he never truly knew. It sounded old-fashioned, but Stiles couldn't help thinking that a real family had two parents, not just a crazy grandmother and a workaholic father - even though he loved them to bits.

Eight years ago, the most important woman in Stiles’ life had passed away, and his family would barely speak of her again.

Until he found out who she really was, Stiles knew his family would never be complete.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally made it! Two years since the original was first posted and it's finally up! Hooray!
> 
> For any newcomers who do not know, this fic is actually a complete rewrite of my incompleted scisaac-centric fic, which will be taken down after the second chapter of this one is completed and posted.
> 
> I would like to thank all of the people who stuck by and patiently waited for this rewrite to happen, and for all who supported me through the original. You have been an incredible support network and I could not have done it if you guys hadn't pushed me through it all.
> 
> I'd also like to thank my beautiful and amazing beta misakikinomoto, who kindly took the time to go over this chapter early despite having exams! You are my rock and my writing wife Sanj, couldn't have done it without you.
> 
> The next chapter will be up in 2-4 weeks time, so watch this space!
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> \- E


	2. Chapter 2

Bożydar Henry Stilinski had been born just before midnight, under an April full moon.

Apparently, when they had come home from the hospital, Stiles had cried and cried and cried. He had cried all the time. His dad said he had been a ‘colicky baby,’ whatever that meant. All Stiles knew was that he cried too much.

Babcia always said it was because Stiles’ mom wouldn't let her tie a red ribbon around Stiles’ wrist. As punishment, bad spirits had come to rest in his cradle.

Hearing this story growing up, Stiles had never been sure if the spirits had squatted in his cradle to punish him for crying so much, or if his mom was punished with a crying child because she didn't put a ribbon on Stiles’ wrist in the first place. Either way, they both ended up the losers.

Babcia’s theory was that most things in life could be solved with a red ribbon, and everything that couldn't be solved that way could be fixed with a swim in the ocean. No matter the weather, or the time of day, Babcia claimed that a swim in the sea would cure you of all ills and moods.

Leading up to her death, Babcia had tried to persuade Claudia to take a trip to the ocean with her, but his mom didn't want to swim with Babcia. She had spent her last days with them alone or looking after Stiles in a half-hearted sort of way. She hardly ever went out. Babcia had stormed in one day and demanded that John take control of what was happening, but they both knew that there wasn't much that any of them could do.

It was pretty obvious to Stiles that Babcia had never approved of his parents’ hasty marriage. Claudia wasn’t polish, she was too young to have a child, and she didn’t let Babcia raise Stiles the way she wanted to.

Finally, weeks after Stiles’ mom had been diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia, Claudia Stilinski’s heart finally gave out, unable to keep up with the turmoil in her mind.

Unable to  cope with the death of his wife, as well as the stress of the business and having to take care of a distraught, unrelenting ten year old, John asked his mother to move in and help with the burden.

So Babcia had stepped in and helped out with Stiles. They thought it would just be for a little while, but it had turned into a more permanent fixture. They never spoke of Claudia again. All they knew was that she had used her credit card, the day before she passed away, to book a one way ticket to Paris.

Stiles had always known that, in some way, it had been his fault that his mother’s heart gave out. If he had have been more well behaved--not getting into trouble with Scott or constantly needing to be doing something and learning something-- then maybe her mind would have been healthier, maybe she would have coped. They might have been a normal family.

In spite of this, Stiles chose to be happy, or at least, to appear that way.

John had tried his best to be both a mother and a father to Stiles. When Stiles had his first crush on the one and only Lydia Martin, John had tried his best to give him any and all advice he had. And when John had one day walked in on Stiles with his tongue down another young man’s throat, he later placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and said, “I love you no matter what.”

He did great, he really did. Stiles was thankful for every second of it. But it just wasn’t the same as having his mom there.

Stiles often looked at the few photos he had of his mother when she was in his life. Stiles always thought that his mother--beautiful, with green eyes and a sad sort of smile--looked tired and really, really young. She had the same untidy dark hair that refused to obey Stiles’ hairbrush.

As a child, information about his mom had been hard to come by. Stiles had realized early on that his questions upset his father more than any trouble he got into could. John had tried to distract Stiles with chocolate treats and eventually boxed up all the things that reminded him of Claudia and put them in the upstairs cupboard.

Babcia was bitter and judgemental when Stiles asked about his mother, so he had learnt early on not to go to her.

Beside his bed, Stiles kept the photographs of his mother that he had rescued from the upstairs cupboard, but he didn’t even need to look at them anymore. He had burnt them into his memory.

Babcia knew that Stiles would be searching for what his mother had wanted in Paris, and Stiles knew that, somehow, underneath that brittle layer of powder and hairspray, Babcia understood. That’s why Babcia hadn’t said anything to her son about Stiles’ plans.

After the party, when the cafe floor was sticky with spilt drinks and scuffed from dancing, Stiles cleared the table with his father and set things as right as possible for the morning shift. He climbed the stairs, brushed his teeth, and fell into bed. It was nearly four in the morning, but he couldn’t sleep.

Stiles used to wish he could just close his eyes and wake up with his mother still alive. There was never really an explanation as to why she had gotten sick, and Stiles felt like he barely knew her. He just wished he could have understood.

Stiles closed his eyes, and his mother’s face came into his mind.

Would she even recognize me if she was still here?

But how could she not know him? They had the same messy dark hair and spattering of moles. The only thing Stiles had inherited from his father was his brown eyes.

Babcia said Claudia’s green eyes had been John’s undoing, and perhaps they were. In the spirit of Babcia’s crazy superstitions, Stiles had long ago decided to stay away from any boy or girl with green eyes. Green eyes give out the evil eye, the curse of bad luck, Babcia said. So Stiles only dated people with brown eyes. He would have happily dated people with blue eyes, but none that Stiles liked had shown up.

There had been plenty of casual relationships. He had slept with two people: his friend Heather to rid himself of his virginity when he was sixteen, and then his on-again-off-again boyfriend, Danny. He was a year older than him, and had headed to New York the year before to work. They had parted on good terms, inasmuch as they were friends on Facebook. Actually, Stiles had heard that Danny was back in town. He was a nice guy, sweet and kind, but he wasn’t someone Stiles could imagine being with forever.

Not that Stiles honestly gave relationships much thought. Lydia was always trying to set him up with this friend or that, but Stiles just didn’t care that much. Instead, he spent his time scheming to get to Paris to learn about his mother.

Now that the time had finally come, Stiles felt a wave of nerves and doubt. But, he reminded himself, his dad needed to go back to having his own life, and Babcia needed to worry about someone else's red ribbons and bad-luck spirits for a while.

If Stiles went away, then maybe life could return to normal for them. He knew what a huge sacrifice his dad had made for him. He hadn’t had a real girlfriend since Stiles’ mom had passed. He’d had the occasional date, but only when Stiles had chastised him about getting out more.

As was always the case at this time of the night, when Stiles was thinking about his mom, his sadness turned to anger. Everyone’s lives stopped while Moms’ did, and in the end she didn’t even care. What the hell did she want in Paris that she didn’t have here?

Sadness washed over him as he finally drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Stiles woke early in the morning, his mouth was dry and his head was host to an alcohol-induced headache. He drank three glasses of water, took two aspirins, showered, dressed, and went downstairs to the hum of the cafe.

Erica was working in the kitchen, assembling scrambled eggs on toast, and Lydia waved at him from the coffee machine.

“Morning, Stiles,” Lydia offered him a grin and handed him a strong latte with no sugar. Stiles sipped it, feeling his body respond to the caffeine hit.

“Morning,” Stiles replied. He poked his head through the servery window, smiling at Boyd, who washed their dishes whenever he wasn’t at college studying Physics. “Where’s dad?”

“He’s gone to the market while we’re quiet,” Lydia said. “We’re out of basil.”

“What time are you leaving?” Erica asked.

“Flight leaves at ten tonight,” Stiles said as he grabbed a croissant from the basket on the counter.

Stiles looked around the cafe that had been his playground as a child. The wooden floors were worn and the chairs were mismatched--not in a cool way. Stiles knew the walls needed a coat of paint, but at this moment, with people chatting and the familiar sounds and smells from the kitchen, Stiles thought Cafe Selene was just perfect.

The cafe was the only one for four blocks. So, as his dad always said, they owned the coffee industry. At least, for four blocks they did. There had been a florist nearby, but that had been empty for a few months and now the windows were covered with paper. There’d been a newsagency, a children’s clothes shop, and an organic grocery. But they’d all closed down over the years. Only an antiques shop that was open odd hours had survived.

The shop was run by a man Babcia had always told Stiles to avoid, though she never explained why. Over the years, Stiles had invented a series of stories about the man, ranging from him being a secret underground drug dealer to a war criminal living in hiding. The shop always had mystic and bizarre window displays that fascinated Stiles. Maybe it was the mystery of the man that made the shop so intriguing.

As long as he could remember, Stiles would cross to the other side of the street whenever he saw the man arranging his eclectic display of furniture at the front of his shop.

He used to watch Stiles as he walked past. When he was younger, Stiles thought the man’s interest was creepy and unsettling. But as he got older, Stiles started to think that he really didn’t look very sinister at all. Just last week, he’d even raised his hand in a small wave as Stiles passed by on the other side of the street. It was almost imperceptible, just enough for Stiles to feel he should return it with a polite nod of his head.

It was a sort of acknowledgement, perhaps, but of what, exactly? Stiles wasn’t sure. This is exactly the sort of thing I would have asked Mom, he’d thought at the time.

If he wasn’t going away, Stiles might have found the antique-shop mystery too compelling not to solve. But Babcia’s distrust of the guy who ran a dusty, second-hand shop was hardly going to keep him awake at night when he was in Paris.

“Excuse me, Stiles?” a female voice said, interrupting his thoughts.

Stiles looked up to see a middle-aged woman with brown, curly hair wearing nurse’s scrubs.

“Good morning Melissa,” Stiles said with a smile. Melissa McCall was Scott’s mom and a Cafe Selene frequenter. Aside from Babcia, Melissa was the closest thing to a mother Stiles had. He leaned forward and gave her a peck on the cheek. “What can I help you with?”

“I need to pay for my breakfast,” she said in reply.

“No problem. Where were you sitting?” Stiles asked, moving across the room toward the register.

“Just by the window,” Melissa said, following him and searching through her bag for her wallet.

“That’s eighteen-fifty,” Stiles said, ringing it up on the till.

“How’s your dad doing?” Melissa asked as she handed him a twenty dollar bill.

“Yeah, he’s doing well. He’s a bit worried about me leaving, but he’ll be fine. He’s got the cafe to keep him occupied.” Stiles smiled softly at her.

For a while, Stiles had suspected that Melissa harbored a soft spot for his dad, and that was before she started frequenting the cafe for breakfast. Melissa was beautiful and Stiles thought that they would make a great pair, but he thought it best not to meddle and let them figure it out for themselves.

“I’m sure that grandmother of yours will keep him in check for you while you’re away. Where is it you’re going again?” Melissa asked.

“I’m off to Paris for a few months, doing a bit of exploring.”

“Oh, how exciting,” Melissa said with a grin. “Are you going with anyone? Or meeting anyone there?”

Stiles looked at the woman who had been so close to a mother to him for part of his life, then looked around to check that no one else was listening. He could trust Melissa, and knew that if he asked, she wouldn’t tell a word. Stiles moved around to the front of the counter and put his hand on her arm.

“I’m going to try and find out why Mom wanted to go there,” he whispered. Melissa’s eyes widened in shock, and Stiles squeezed her arm gently. “Please don’t tell dad. He won't understand, but I need to do this. I just need to.”

Melissa shook her head and gently took Stiles’ hand in hers. “I understand, Stiles. I’m not sure why you’re telling me, but I understand. I wouldn’t tell John unless you wanted me to.”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead and re-adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Stiles,” she said as way of goodbye, before turning and leaving.

Stiles had no idea why he had told Melissa about his Mom. Maybe saying it out loud would make it more real. He made his way upstairs to finish packing. He hadn’t told anyone until now, not even Scott. Not Lydia, not Babcia, and certainly not his dad. But he figured that he could trust Melissa.

And as long as she could keep quiet, his secret would be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one down! 
> 
> Sorry guys, but this means that the original is now getting deleted. Upon posting the next chapter I'll be changing the name to Selene.
> 
> Thank you again to the lovely misakikinomoto for being my beta and cheerleader. I love you dearly!
> 
> Stay tuned for an update soon guys!
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> \- E


End file.
